


Falling

by MaccasWeirdFriend



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Car Accidents, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Liverpool, M/M, Viola Beach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2018-11-16 06:21:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11248098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaccasWeirdFriend/pseuds/MaccasWeirdFriend
Summary: "Paul, it's not your fault. You can't continue to think like that.""It is, and I'll do whatever I want. I was there-you weren't, were you?-and I couldn't even protect him. What kind of person am I?""A good one.""Don't lie to me. You know I'm horrible and don't even deserve to stand here."





	1. I

"Georgie, you excited?"

Paul looked over a bit to see George on his phone, snickering at God knows what he pulled up on Twitter.

"Why do you even call me Georgie? It makes me sound like I'm five and you're dropping me off at summer camp."

Finally, the young adult looked up from his phone. He still had a smirk on his face from what he saw on his phone, but it was aimed at Paul this time, so the driver felt pretty darn special with this kind of attention.

"I call you that because it's your nickname. Do you want me to call you Geo or something?"

"It sounds more grown up, so yeah!"

Paul lost it, laughing hysterically at the thought of George . . . being grown up. Drinking coffee that didn't have so much whipped cream and caramel in it that it'd kill a diabetic in seconds. Actually wearing a suit and not complaining about he felt like a corporate puppet. And maybe not playing Kingdom Hearts at ungodly times of the day, because no matter how entertaining the game is, hearing battle scenes at three in the morning isn't the definition of entertaining.

"You think I can't be grown up?"

Paul continued to laugh, not really hearing George's words. Not wearing shorts even though he didn't like the way jeans felt. Wearing his glasses for once even though they made him 'look dorky'.

"I am so grown up! You won't even believe how grown up I am!"

"I believe you, George! Don't worry your pretty head about it, I believe you!" Paul managed as he tried to calm his laughter. George started to pout in his seat as he watched Paul continue to loose it at the mere thought of a slightly older George.

"No, you don't! You think I'm tiny and young and whatever!" George grumbled back, sliding further into his seat and taking off his seat belt to find a book.

"You're taller than me! And I'm hardly even a year older than you!" Paul responded, a little frazzled with how angry George sounded and looked over at the other to see if he was okay. A face slightly contorted with frustration. Definitely not okay. "Why are you so upset by this anyroad? What did I do wrong?"

The younger sighed and shuffled around so he could grab something from the back.

"I don't even remember. But I will eventually, so you better watch out."

Paul rolled his eyes and looked back at the road.

Back on the road, but too late.

"George, look out!"

He didn't get a response, but the glass windows of the car filled the silence George would have.

Tires screeched.

Metal crumpled.

People flung in opposite directions.

Paul moved his arm, only to groan loudly as he raised it an inch off the ground. He settled with trying to open his eyes and even this was a challenge. But he opened them and was met with a bit of confusion. He was looking at a still scene, two cars practically moulded together, one that he recognised as his car and another he couldn't even remember seeing. Where did it come from? One moment he was looking over at George, worried. And then . . .

He moved his hand a little, feeling rubble and sand all around him.

So, he was flung out of the car.

He should have worn a seatbelt. George always told him—

George.

Paul's head snapped up from its musing of how rugged the ground was to everywhere around him. It hurt terribly to even move his neck, but he shoves these feelings deep down to find the person he was with just a second ago. Or, at least he thought it was a second ago.

His eyes settle on the cars once again, yet focused a bit more on it.

"George!" he croaked. He winced at the sound of his own, with it cracking and hardly even audible over the breeze in the area.

There his George was, lying across the hood of the car. He couldn't stop staring at the sight. It was so horrifying, but it was as if not looking at George, for just a second, would cause him to fall.

Even though he knew this wasn't true, the fact that George could be teetering between staying on flat ground and falling was. Or maybe that was his mind was playing tricks on him since Liverpool can have a hill here or there, but nothing that dangerous. 

Ignoring once again the pain in his body, he searched his pockets for his phone, a bit grateful for his odd habit of putting it in his back pocket as he drove around.

He slowly pulled it out and looked up to George. His eyes were still closed and his face still peaceful. He hoped that it would be that way until help arrived.

"999, what's the emergency?"

"Accident. Car accident. Really bad," Paul wheezed. He could hardly breathe as he tried to talk to the man over the phone and if he wasn't busy trying to make sure that he kept consciousness, he would hear the slight groaning of the cars.

"Do you know where you are?"

Paul looked around, hoping for just one road sign, even if he could hardly read it. But he didn't find one because, as luck would have it, he drove to a big field that practically didn't exist to map makers.

"No," Paul whispered into the phone. That probably wasn't enough information because the guy over the phone hummed a little as if to say, "Yeah, I can totally find you right now with just one word. Continue to say two-word sentences to me and I'll find the solution to world peace, even!"

So he tried to be more articulate, starting off with a deep breath to give himself a moment to try and stop thinking about the pain. 

"We were going somewhere. Viola Beach concert—"

"Okay! I heard about that from a friend, so I'll send people down routes toward the venue. But to stop them from travelling everywhere, do you remember the last place you passed?" 

Wracking his brain, he looked around the open fields, trying to see anything distinguishable.

"Think we're in Barton . . . Saw a few houses . . . Gorsey . . . Think we're on Gorsey."

"That's excellent information," the man said and quick along with furious typing was heard in the background. "They're on their way now, but the best hospital is back around Anfield. You know where that is?"

Paul snickered, probably delirious from everything that happened. It was turning into something close to body shaking laughter, but his midsection hurt too much for that to happen.

"My dad practically lives at Anfield, my mum was part of the 96 so . . ." Paul didn't know how to finish off that statement. He didn't even know why he said it. Maybe the pain really was getting to him.

The man on the other line sucked in a shaky breath and continued to type away, saying his condolences and how sorry he was. Paul had heard it all before, so he wasn't too bothered by it and drowned it out as he tried to regulate his own breathing.

"They'll be coming soon, okay? I told them to hurry because we have no idea when it happened, so I'll stay on the line with you . . . to make sure nothing happens."

Paul nodded, at this point very tired and very much ready to close his eyes. He knew he shouldn't, but the thought was so tempting.

"Who were you going with? To the concert, I mean," the responder asked, trying to keep the conversation and Paul's consciousness.

George's eyes were still closed as he lay on top of the hood, glass all over him and around him. To Paul, it was a peaceful scene and the only thing keeping him from losing it.

"Going with my boyfriend. Was supposed to be the start of a good vacation. Now we're going to a hospital."

"It'll be a good one, Royal Liverpool University Hospital. I just need to tell them that at least three people are arriving."

Paul had heard of it. Really, there was no way not to. A big, high-tech hospital with a bunch of students running around and learning from pros. And they showed ads for it like they were trying to sell a bottle of Gatorade. Gatorade that could cost a lot of money to get you back to your best, but that's how it worked.

"Will the ambulance be good?"

"I've made sure they're good. Not sure where they are now, but I know for a fact that they're good."

For a minute they sat in silence. How did they start talking about hospitals and ambulances again? He didn't even notice the change in topic, his mind probably getting more and hazier as he looked for things to distract him from the pain. All he could see was grass and blue skies. Not very helpful . . .

Paul wasn't sure how to continue the conversation because all he wanted to ask was stuff about George.

If he would make it.

If he wasn't paralysed or severely injured by the crash.

He just wanted to know that.

"Hello?"

His head snapped up and he groaned at the pain of that quick motion. He should have remembered.

"I'm here to make sure you don't fall asleep on me. You weren't talking for a while, are you sure you're okay?"

He was tempted to say no, but his mouth felt heavy and his tongue many pounds heavier than it actually was. So he'd save energy for important stuff.

The responder sighed, something tapping continuously on his side. "They should be there. I'm looking at them right now on the map and they're pretty close . . . I told them to hurry. Do you hear them?"

"You never hung up, how'd you talk to them?"

There was a quick pause.

"I never hung up, that's right. But we talked to him, you and I. You . . . never mind. Just tell me when they come in because they should be here now . . . idiots."

Paul laughed a little, letting himself smile just a little as the pain continued to gnaw at him all over. A dull noise started to ring in his ears, a little irritating, but there nonetheless.

It got louder over time, continuing its irritating rounds of assault on the eardrums.

"It's there," the responder said, sounding elated to hear the ambulance's wails. "I'll be hanging up now, make sure that you don't die on those guys."

And with that, the line clicked and died within seconds.

Paul looked around with a tired look. All he wanted to do was get drunk just a little bit at a concert and listen to music with his number one guy.

Anything he thought was fun, the universe eventually came after. Not immediately, but eventually.

The noise finally ended and people rushed all over the "scene".

That's what they called it, apparently. The other driver died (From what he was told, it looked like it was instant impact, so he didn't suffer. Like that makes it any better.), George was covered in glass and here he was, flung toward a tree.

And all they could call it was a scene. It felt like an understatement or an insult to just call it a scene.

"Sir, are you okay?"

Paul scowled at him.

"I was thrown into a tree . . . What do you think?"

The person in front of him scowled back.

"We need to get you to the hospital quickly, but you have a large piece of metal in your abdomen and we're afraid it's keeping you pinned to the tree. So—"

"What?"

Paul looked down and sure enough, there was a large hunk of metal poking right out of him. No sound came out of his mouth but he felt a million things he wished he could get out of him in the quickest way possible.

Suddenly, the pain came in a roaring flood, making his consciousness slip so far from his grasp, but close enough that he could still feel the pain.

Through the water (Where did that come from? They were on the flat surface, far from the ocean and any lakes.), the guy that was talking to him responded. "We're advised not to pull anything out, but I made an executive decision. If I didn't . . ."

The man might have said something there, but Paul's body gave up, letting the pain win this battle. He slumped over, eyes glazed and blood staining his whole front.

He wasn't dead, just out of consciousness. But he sure as hell looked dead.

●

He regained consciousness a few times after that.

Once in the ambulance, long enough to feel the stabbing pain be replaced with no feeling at all. He looked around, bright lights causing him to squint and murmur a small complaint. A little yelling stirred up around him and he met darkness yet again.

Another time at the hospital. They were transferring him from the ambulance's gurney to the hospital's own. Apparently, he lost a tonne of blood and the wound be got on his abdomen was pretty serious, so he needed to go to surgery immediately.

"George," Paul croaked. He winced for the other people because his voice sounded like he used a bed of rocks to gargle his throat than mouthwash. "Where's 'e? 'Ow's 'e doin'?"

Now he just cringed. How about he just leave the talking to the doctors, because he clearly couldn't do that. 

"We're taking very good care of him," one of the doctors told him. She seemed serious about what she was doing if the worry lines didn't say that on their own. There was also a concerned and caring air about her, something he remembered his mum telling him the best of the best had. "He came in a little earlier than you did, so he's in surgery now."

Paul closed his eyes. He was pretty thankful the darkness came now, he couldn't wrap his head around the fact that in one moment they were talking and in the next, their lives hung in the balance. 

He finally was up after surgery. But his heart raced along with his mind.

Where was he?

Why weren't they at the concert?

Wait . . . where was George?

"George!"

"Hey, buddy!"

"Where's George?" Paul yelled again. He heard people run into the room but he couldn't see them. His vision was blurry and tunnelled, not focusing on anything or anyone.

He thrashed in the bed, trying to get the things that were restraining him to that spot, be it IV or anything else.

"Paul, you need to calm down!"

"Where's George?" His yell was much more desperate now as the nurses got to the room and started to pin him down.

"That's nothing for you to worry about now, just calm down, Paulie!"

Paul was now pinned by about three or so nurses, with the doctor on the case finally coming into the room. Still, he could tell how familiar that voice was and that it was not someone that worked at the hospital. The voice started up again, saying:

"No, doc. He hates needles; you're only going to make things worse! Isn't there another way? Like a pill?"

There was a pause of silence now because Paul heard the word needle and just shut up. It was true that he hated needles, big or small. But if this would get him to George, he'd take it.

"Your friend . . ." The doctor paused there, waiting for the name of the person that was with Paul.

"The name's Charles, but you can call me Buddy."

"Your friend, Charles, is very agitated. If we have him take a pill in the state he's in, he'd either spit it out or choke to death on it. This is the only choice we have before he opens his wounds up again and we need to take him to surgery."

Buddy looked at Paul with sad eyes but tilted his head after a moment of looking into Paul's terrified but not at all focused eyes.

"That's already happened, sir. No need to worry about it anymore. Just give it to him . . . If that'll make him better. Before you go back and sew him up again."

And the needle went in.


	2. II

Buddy sat by himself in that Godforsaken waiting room.

His mom told him that 'Godforsaken' is a horrible word, only used by heathens that didn't know how to pray.

At the moment, he kind of felt like a heathen.

Whenever he opened his mouth to say something to God about Paul or George, it just stayed open and his mind went blank.

He couldn't think of one thing he should say without making a scene in front of all the strangers in the room.

But it was weird, being on this side of the doors and not on the other, lying on the operating table with people trying to save his life.

"Charles?" a nurse asked the crowd. The only people in the room with him were women, so he was pretty sure he knew who they were talking to.

"I said call me Buddy about five times now! But okay . . ."

He walked over to her, trying to read her body language before she said a word. At the moment, she was totally unreadable.

"Charles, George is finally out of surgery."

At that, Buddy cheered and smiled for the first time that day. It's been a long and scary process with George. He'd been in survey an hour or two before he'd gotten to the hospital and finally, he got out, six hours after Buddy came in.

"But Paul—"

"What about him? What's wrong?"

"The doctors found new bleeding that was found in his abdomen. It couldn't have been caused by his . . . incident when he woke up, so we're trying the best we can to stop that and the reopened wounds."

Buddy sucked in a small breath and looked around. The ladies in the room were staring at him, practically daring him to make a scene. Maybe he was overthinking it, getting paranoid. His old psychiatrist did say that was a thing that he kept doing, get paranoid and freak out. What were those steps again . . . ?

He nodded, sucking in a deeper breath this time and loosened up his hands. Think about the beach, and he'll be as calm as the waves. Or whatever nonsense that man was severely overpaid for.

The doctor squinted a little at him but ran back to the OR.

Buddy laughed to himself. She must be an intern not to know him. Being the sole survivor of a nasty plane crash and being helicoptered to this hospital with a leg badly messed up, an injury to his spine and a brain practically open for the world to see was not something a person forgot so easily.

●

George looked like a machine connected to other machines.

But a tinier machine. And much, much thinner than you'd want a person to be.

"You said his surgery was a success, right?" Buddy asked the surgeon in the room. It took a moment for the man to really say anything, he was too focused on Buddy's brace to think about it. "It's okay, you can ask about it. Y'know, if you want to."

The surgeon laughed a little, moving toward him to sit in the chair next to him.

"You do know there are better braces out there in the world for you?"

Buddy thought about it for a quick moment. After the accident, he felt like he might never walk again without breaking a sweat and having to use all his energy just to think about going somewhere with the practically dead left leg. Amputation was on the table. So using a cane felt like a miracle, albeit a long and painful one. And getting this brace now, it felt like his life was finally getting back on track. Funny that it all happened because of a job offer.

"I know, but I've hardly broken this one in and this was really expensive. I'll just wait until it gives or I scrounge up enough money. Thanks for the worry."

The man hummed, looking at the brace one more time, giving what looked like deep thought on the subject.

"Our orthopaedic surgeon is currently working on a trial with a world class brace, that's why I asked. I think you'd be a perfect candidate to be a part of it. And it will be free of charge."

Buddy gawked for a moment, just thinking over what this man said. A brace, free of charge, and the best of the best. He couldn't believe his ears. But he also couldn't leave his friends behind.

"That sounds awesome, but I've got two friends that are really going to need my help and they helped me through all my medical stuff. So I have to help them through theirs. Anyways, let's talk about George."

"The surgery was a success, you were right," the other responded. "We just don't know when he'll wake up. The trauma that he went through was great. He landed on the hood of the car, which, yes, is not as bad as your friend who hit the tree. But some pieces of glass pierced his back, which puts us in a worried state that he may have an injured spine. He also had major swelling in his brain, a dislocated shoulder, a gash—"

"You can stop now," Buddy murmured. It sounded grim, what was happening now. He just wanted George to wake up and give him a lopsided grin, telling him that he'd be just fine and that they didn't need to stay in the hospital anymore because he felt great. Instead, George just let the machines breathe and pump blood for him. 

"We'll be monitoring him every hour for brain activity, but it's not looking great for him right now."

"You mean he'll die?" 

The surgeon frowned, wringing his hands a bit as he travelled to his quiet place. Maybe there George wasn't hooked up to machines and he'd be singing along to his new favourite band at this very moment.

"No," the man said. "It's just that right now, these are the critical hours after surgery and even though it was a success, he didn't do that well on the table. Have you called his parents?"

Changing the subject, he saw. Anyroad . . .

"They've been held up, something about bad weather at the resort they're staying at that's holding them up. For the best, I think."

The doctor hummed and got up, leaving the room so he could probably check on other patients. He stopped once he got to the door, rummaging through his pocket with a sense of urgency. 

"If you ever need anything," he said, still rummaging. "Call the number when you have time to take care of yourself." Finally, he pulled out a small blue card and gave it to the young Texan. 

Buddy looked over for a moment and tried to give a quick thank you to this helpful as well as understanding surgeon . . . only for said surgeon not to be there. He sighed, looking back at the card, trying now avidly to avoid George and his forced breaths. 

Dr Alexander Sheppard, the chief of neurosurgery and definitely a part of the trial that he was talking to Buddy about, from what the card explained. 

Buddy flipped the card over once, twice, three times over. The idea was still very tempting. Even with the limited feeling in his left leg, he could feel the numb discomfort from the somewhat subpar brace that he had on it. 

He fiddled with it, looking over the material. What would this new one be made of, stainless steel? Unheard of kind of metals that can give super strength? 

"What do you think it'd be George?" 

There was obviously no response, but he already knew what the younger's response would be. He would be excited about the mere thought of a new one, just like he was with the one he was wearing now. Then he'd research about it until he forgot what day it was and eventually became a greater expert than some of the experts. That check up with his therapist sure was eventful. 

A young man walked into the room, peering into the room as if he was afraid something would come and grab him so that he'd never see the light of day again. He regained his confidence when he saw it was only Buddy, who didn't even acknowledge that he existed. It was better that way, the young resident thought as he went to grab his stethoscope. 

"Heart sounds good," the surgeon in training mumbled to himself. "But then again, we paid a lot of money for the machines to make that happen." He went through the rest of the check up like that, pulling out another piece of medical equipment, checking something off a list and mumbling to himself. If it bothered Buddy, he didn't try to make it seem that way at all. 

The resident turned around, tapping away on his tablet about what he saw, which wasn't much. Buddy was still in the same position that he was in minutes ago, still as lost and thought and still as empty looking. He bit his lip anxiously, looking around once again with the same look he came in with. Maybe he needed a bit of therapy.

"Okay, I shouldn't be telling you this."

Buddy still didn't act as if there was another person other than George and himself in the room. 

"Well, I just thought that you should know that your friend is down the hall. I doubt that he's woken up, but he's there."

With that, the resident practically ran out of the room and left Buddy with his thoughts.

He was sure that George wouldn't mind being alone for a while.


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I should feel bad, putting these two in the hospital et al, but at the same time, even I want to see where this goes. I'm horrible. But a good horrible.

Paul got into the car, humming to himself a part of a song that had been in his head for weeks. He was probably going to hear that same song live later that day and act like a total idiot when the band starts to play it.

"And I say please don't take your time, 'cause I just really wanna call and show you love, show you love now," George sang, going along with what Paul was humming in perfect sync, picking up where Paul left off. Which wasn't hard, since he listened to it every waking moment without fail.

Paul smirked, bobbing his head to the drumming that was going on in his head that was in the song. Finally, he opened up his mouth to sing, "And I say please don't change your mind,  
'cause I just really wanna call and show you love, show you love now."

"You can show me love right now," George suggested, wiggling his eyebrows at Paul and smiling without a care in the world. 

Not wanting to be a bad boyfriend, he brought George in for a tight hug from behind. His head rested ever so lightly on the younger's right shoulder and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. The giant blush that was left behind on the skin his lips had touched let him knew that he certainly got the job done. 

"You're making it so tempting to stay at home," Paul whispered into George's ear. "But, we've got a big concert to get to. Last moment of freedom we'll have before finals. Plus, the tickets were expensive."

"So we're going no matter what?"

"Wanted to make it seem like you have a say in this, or is Georgie too smart for me now?"

"Always was, always will be. Just wanted you to feel like you have a few working neurones up there."

Paul moved back, snickering at what George said. He was slowly losing his cool as his shoulders continued to shake, which then intensified to near body shaking laughter, head thrown back, eyes closed kind of laughter. 

"Thanks for the confidence booster."

● 

Paul jolted awake, breath heavy from what he just woke up from. He closed his eyes as he did in the drug-induced dream, trying to calm himself down. All he could see behind dark eyelids was Georgie, still smiling at him, suspended in a time where hurt, harm or danger came near him. 

It was obvious at that point that closing his eyes wasn't going to help.

He opened his eyes to see Buddy leaning against the door, just staring at him with all kinds of emotions Paul couldn't properly identify swirling around in his eyes. For that short minute, they didn't say anything, not quite ready to say anything that could ruin the peace that was so hard to come by in the last couple of hours.

Buddy pushed himself off of the doorway, eyes just as unreadable the closer he got to Paul as they were far away.

"You seem calm," Buddy said as he sat in the small chair by the bed. It took Paul a moment to try to figure out how to properly look at him without bothering his stitches and gave up in the end. A small frown flitted on his face, finally giving the elder one noticeable emotion. "They have a remote for that. To move the bed up and down and all that. You shouldn't use it right now, though."

Still, he leant over to the small table next to them that had said remote on it and placed it in Paul's hand. There was no move to close his hand around the remote or even to say a quick thank you, not even a look over to his friend just to acknowledge that he was there.

"Alright in there, bud? You're starting to act like a statue right now."

"Why'd you give it to me then?"

Buddy tilted his head at that, not really following what was put out in a seemingly random way. 

"Forget it," Paul said with a sigh and moved the remote around in his hand without any serious thought. "Any word on George?"

That question was avoided in a fashion too obvious even for Buddy Holly of all people. He stood up in such a hurry that his chair nearly tipped over in the process and he hardly bothered to stop it as it tried to right itself. 

"You need ice chips. Or, at least you will. Remember after surgery I was so thirsty but they kept saying I couldn't get water until . . . well, I forgot. But I'll get it."

Just as quickly as he blurted out the little fact he was out of the room without so much as a quick reminder that'd he be back shortly. Judging by how quickly he left and the reason for it, he would have been lying if he'd said that anyways. 

So Paul was left to his thoughts, which weren't at all comforting, just like the mattress and blanket he was given. He'd have to remember to ask for a second one of those anyways, the blankets in hospitals are certainly described as thin for a reason. 

A small rap at the door tore Paul from his already darkening mind and he accepted the distraction, hoping Buddy would explain to him why he ran off and then talk about George in great detail.

The person at the door wasn't at all who he'd hoped it would be. Instead of it being his friend - who had a lot of questions to answer, by the way- he was staring at a doctor that seemed way too happy to be there. It was the complete opposite of the quiet staredown he had with his close friend, which was them just confirming they were both safe and hoping things were going to get better from here. This was the guy standing in front of him was looking at a medical miracle.

It took the patient clearing his throat for the doctor to actually do something. So he got a dud. Brilliant.

That was also all it took for the doctor to start rambling about how cool it was to watch people open up his body and dig around in there. But to do that himself--

"Can we stop the narrative on how I nearly died?"

"There's no way you would have, though. Our doctors are kickass, the best in Liverpool and one of the best in England. There was this other guy that came before you with this serious head injury, I'm not so sure about him."

Paul nearly cried out for him to stop again and at the same time he couldn't help but want to ask him to go into detail. This was the first person to really say what he'd been wanting to hear for a long time and even though he was annoying, he could certainly put up with it to get to know about George's condition. 

"I mean, his face wasn't hurt that bad, maybe a scar at the worse and then you just look up a bit and it was like his brain was just out there! Or . . . that's what one of my friends said. She over exaggerates, though. It wasn't an easy surgery, took hours, she said. Now all they're waiting for him to do is wake up."

"Why?" Paul asked, making the doctor pause as he checked his feet. He still moved the cold metal up the left foot and wrote down how Paul squirmed away from the touch. 

"As I said, his head was a mess. There was a lot of pressure in there and he was lucky to get here on time to relieve it. I'd start being a Christian if he comes out without some serious problems."

The test finished at that, his scribbling on the page with a final flourish. It left Paul to his thoughts once again, fiddling with the crappy blanket that was on him. Speaking of . . . 

"Do you think I can get another one of these blankets?" Paul blurted out. He was still looking at the slightly frayed edges of the one he had, playing around with loose strings and wondering which one was the one to make the blanket become a nice ball of string. 

"What?" the doctor asked, close to laughing as he looked back at the person who wouldn't look right at him. "Oh, those things. We have a tonne of them so don't worry about it. I'll have a nurse bring one to you soon. Stay comfy, you might be here a while."

And with that, the doctor left. 

Paul pulled at one of the loose strings and it only got longer, not falling apart like he quietly hoped it would. 

"Stay alive for me, George. I can't go on without you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This was definitely shorter than I expected! I'm no good with plots, but I feel like something's on here, which is brilliant. So these short chapters have a meaning, along with a thing I read recently saying that people like shorter chapters. Hehe, je ne suis pas bonne avec petites histoires. (Is that feminine??) And I read that a patient post-abdominal surgery only gets a glass of water after they . . . pass gas. ^^ Awkward, but I see the reasons for it. You see I've been reading a bit too. Still, have a lovely day, all!


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *takes too long to write* *runs out of cave with finished chapter* *notices angry people with tomatoes* *avoids rotten tomatoes* *ends up getting hit anyways* *posts chapter* *hides in cave to repeat cycle*

Paul groaned miserably.

The pain shot through him in quick, fast waves, not giving him a proper moment to press a button to alert a nurse or anyone in the hallway. The most he could do was groan and allow his body to twitch around as the pain dictated. 

After a rather intense rush of pain, a throat-shredding yell left his mouth and tears began to flow down his face.

Footsteps started to his room started and were quick from the get-go.

He was faintly aware of the voices that were by him, vocal ranges and urgency changing at every moment but he couldn't hear a word. His pain wouldn't allow him to hear anything, words that were probably clear only muffled and annoying at best.

A hand came to touch him in a way to comfort him most likely but it was like fire to his skin and another yell left his throat. He was fairly sure that he was crying himself into a dehydrated state and he should have taken those stupid ice chips from Buddy. He didn't though, so now he was crying away the only liquid he had near him that wasn't in an IV.

The fire began to die down slowly, leaving his skin with invisible but harsh marks that threatened to engulf him again.

"Paulie, you okay?"

He wished that he could properly tell Buddy that he wasn't okay in any aspect. Mentally, physically, emotionally. But he couldn't move his mouth in fear that he'd yell once again and feel vulnerable to the people around him. He did, though, open his eyes and look over to his friend, who seemed to have a few unshed tears in his eyes. 

Nurses scrambled around the two of them, playing with the machines that were hooked up to Paul and writing down things. He wondered when the doctor was going to really talk to him.

"The nurses really do a lot here, huh?" Buddy asked, moving to get the tears out of his eyes with the back of his hand, only to smear them on his face. 

Paul would've said amen to that, if he was brave enough to open his mouth and if one of the nurses didn't walk up to the two of them at that moment. 

"It seems that someone turned off your IV drip, so we're slowly bringing it back up," he said softly. He showed him the remote, probably the one that caused all this and Paul raised an eyebrow slowly.

"But that's the TV remote, right, Buddy?" Paul said weakly, finally getting that courage. After hearing his own voice, it was possibly worse than when he first came into n the place.

"Uhm, actually no," the nurse said and handed him another remote, the absolute twin to the one the man was using to fix the IV. He was starting to wonder why they would allow that to happen but thankfully the nurse started to talk once Paul's thoughts took a wrong turn and got a bit wilder. "I guess you thought you were turning down the TV. No worries, good thing we found you when we did." 

Buddy hummed a quiet agreement, no words just a jumble of noises that meant something to everyone in the room but didn't really mean anything. 

A few of the nurses stayed to watch over him, see how he was doing and if he would even move, but Paul stayed in the exact position he was in since the pain ended. It may have been uncomfortable, but he was still afraid of something that may never happen in the end. He surely wasn't going to take any risks after the events of the past few hours. 

Or was it days? 

He didn't know anymore.

"Buddy? How long has it been?" 

"Since . . . ?" Buddy asked as he sniffled quietly once again and Paul randomly remembered it was fall and Buddy was constantly in a state of sickness during the fall. It took a great deal of self-restraint not to give a great smile, give the taller man a kiss on the cheek and say how happy he was that Buddy was his friend. And Buddy wouldn't even take it the wrong way, which made him want to appreciate him all the more.

"The incident."

"Isn't the correct word for that . . . accident or something?"

"My throat is killing me here, just answer me."

"Okay, okay," the Southern man said, waving his hands in a pseudo-apologetic fashion. "Well, the concert was Friday . . . and then you were in surgery for . . . four hours. I think. You were asleep for a while, maybe an hour. Then more surgery! That was two hours because you were really freaking out, bud. Another hour to wake up from that surgery and we talked for a while after that. You slept for a few hours and now we're here." He pulled out his phone and stared at it for a moment. "It's almost Sunday, now."

"And you've been awake that whole time?" Paul croaked. Eventually, he was going to ask for a whiteboard to write on. 

Buddy, though, looked a bit uncomfortable, almost insulted that Paul even asked the question. 

"Coffee's underappreciated, Paul. Does wonders for the system and all that."

They left it at that, Buddy offering to help Paul out of the bed and Paul quickly accepting that offer because staying in bed wasn't going to be good for him anyways. 

It was a bit of a shock when his feet touched the cold ground and he realised that he needed socks. And a support system to help him even stand, which Buddy quickly pointed out would be his IV and all. 

"Buddy?"

They were slowly moving down the hall at this point, mostly because that was all Paul could take and the small other reason was that Buddy was lost in thought and looked anxious. 

"How long has it been?"

Buddy stopped moving, some of the anxiety leaving his body only to be replaced by confusion.

"Since what, Paulie?"

"The incident."

Now Buddy truly stopped moving. He was fidgeting, his hand moving toward his phone, which was about to die, then stopped. He was also about to answer Paul's question when he just let his mouth hang open and his head tilt to the side. 

"You've already asked that."

Paul also tilted his head to the side, resting a bit more on the metal he was wheeling with him. 

"No. I would have remembered if I did."

"Okay, it's practically Sunday and you got here late Friday."

Paul nodded and continued the slow pace to the end of the hall and Buddy's anxiety flared up once again. Maybe, just maybe Paul wouldn't want to go down the hall. 

"How long has it been?"

Now Buddy was anxious for totally different reasons. They were only steps away from George's room, but Paul asked this question over and over again was scaring him and making him ask questions. Just not aloud and repeated. 

"You got here Friday, now it's Sunday."

The funniest, or should it be said oddest, part of all of this was these reactions were all different. This time Paul was searching for something, eyes looking for something in the hall but not finding it and only causing his eyes to get more frantic. 

"Paul, what's wrong?"

The younger didn't answer and continued to search. As he was searching, he started to move down the hall at a faster pace than before, though Buddy wasn't sure that the one moving noticed this. 

"Paul?"

Paul didn't hear him at that, eyes already settling on what they were looking for.

"What happened?" Paul stuttered, now putting his full weight onto the what he was using to walk down the hall. "Why are his eyes closed? Why is connected to all those machines?"

His breath was shaky and he could hardly get his words out but they were still audible enough for Buddy.

"Paul," Buddy said slowly and he hoped that his scripted calmness would be transfered to Paul. "You two were in an accident-" 

And those were the only words that Buddy could get out before Paul collapsed to the floor in tears, his calmness obviously not helping Paul to get calm. In an instant, nurses were swarming around them, getting Paul up and into a wheelchair to somewhere. He was still very upset, but he wasn't as agitated and out of his mind as before. 

"Can you tell me what happened?" a doctor asked him, a little late to the scene. It seemed that all the doctors here were late to the scene. 

"I don't know, sir," Buddy whispered, on the verge of tears for the second time today. Maybe Paul a few hours before was on to something, he wasn't handling today's events very well. "He kept forgetting what was going on when we came down here-" 

The doctor ran in the direction of Paul and the nurses, leaving Buddy all by himself, confused and still shaken up. 

"Well, Georgie. It looks like it's just you and me now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still writing! I'm just a lot slower about it now. XD Okay, I'll be having a George centered chapter soon, just not now because I think it'll be better to have what's going on with Paul straightened out before we get into Georgie's head. Thanks for reading!


	5. V

Buddy was pulled away from George faster than he expected to be.

For a moment, he was sitting down, listening to shallow breathing and whirring machines. Talking to a response-less person got boring very quickly, even when he didn't truly know what George would say and the possibilities kept him occupied for a while.

Then, a nurse pulled him out of the room with not so much as a word and that was it. He tried to ask what was going on but he couldn't get much out of him. Maybe this nurse didn't want to be as busy as they were now, but it seemed like every time Buddy was checking in on Paul or George, this same nurse was always there.

Were they the only interesting thing that happened this weekend?

"Can you please just tell me why you pulled me out of my friend's room? We were having a very riveting discussion in there," Buddy said once again. He wasn't sure if the nurse was deaf, had selective hearing, or just didn't care.

He laughed, so maybe the last thought Buddy had was right at the time.

"I don't know if I'd call a one-sided conversation riveting . . . or anything riveting, really. But we just had to ask you some questions about what happened. Your friend doesn't remember a thing."

Which Buddy suspected, considering it was like he was talking to a broken record before they got split up. The needle would have to have hit that broken groove at one point.

"So he doesn't remember seeing George or . . ."

At this, the nurse stopped moving and Buddy did too.

"No," the nurse started with a face slightly contorted as he thought hard about it. "He remembers George, that's the only person he keeps calling for. But he doesn't know why he's here or anything that happened before the car accident. Has he done that more than once today?" Once he saw Buddy's face the nurse only appeared to get taller as if trying to make his point. "We need to know to rule everything out. He's been through a lot these past few days, a lot of things could be on the list of causes."

The taller of the two rubbed their face in a desperate attempt to make everything right in the world, only for everything to be exactly in the order it was before: chaotic with a side of heartbreak. Which is what he expected to happen, but he was hoping for some grand scale miracle which involved him getting out of bed and laughing at the nightmare with his two healthy and overly affectionate roommates.

"I don't know . . . he asked for the date a lot at one point. Out of nowhere, I think. Then a few seconds would pass and he would just restart and ask again. I thought letting him get out of bed would help that . . . but I don't think I thought it through all that well."

Buddy switched between biting his lip and his thumb as he said this, anxiety and guilt only flooding back into his system as he went over today's events.

"Mate, don't worry yourself sick about it-"

"I know!" Buddy yelled, but there was no malice behind it, only trying to get his nervous energy out. "I have to be there for them and I've been up for hours because I can't pray and I don't even know why I can't pray! I don't want to sleep and wake up and they're-"

Buddy's breathe hitched, lips shaking and vision blurring ever so slightly. He had to hold it in, though. He knew that if he broke the emotional dam now, everything would come flying out and he'd pass out from the exhaustion. And he wasn't sure the person in front of him could handle his tall but thin frame if that did happen. Plus, it would simply be rude for such a thing to happen after knowing this person for such a small amount of time.

A hand was placed on his shoulder tentatively and he jumped for a moment, scaring the hand away. It eventually came back, Buddy not scaring it away and the embrace bringing a small sense of comfort. Not enough to stop his shaking, but enough to get him talking again.

"I-I . . . I need to be there for 'em. T-they were there f-for me-"

"Calm down. The two of them would've had to have slept at one point, right?"

The nurse did have a good point. Buddy nodded slowly, hiccuping a quiet sob.

"So, at one point, you start helping them out by getting a little kip. Self-care is the best care we always say here and you're going to get to it. Now let's get to your friends."

The two of them walked down the hall again toward the room Paul was being evaluated in, the nurse leading the way like last time.

"W-what is your name?" Buddy asked as he tried to get his emotions out of control and far off of his mind. That probably wasn't what self-care meant to the nurse, but that was as close as he could get to it at the moment.

"Bob Montgomery. And you?"

"B-buddy." He nearly cursed himself for still stuttering over words but he wasn't sure that'd be great self-care either. "Buddy Holly. I'm from L-Lubbock, Texas."

The nurse smiled a bit at this. "Don't let the strong Liverpudlian accent fool you: I was born in Lubbock, too. Moved here when I was very young is all."

By this time, they got to the room the nurse-Bob-and into a whole different part of the hospital, not as suffocatingly bright with a sterile smell, just the creeping feeling of someone constantly watching and judging.

"You should . . . lower your expectations for what you're going to see. We had to give him something to calm him down from his hysteria earlier and . . ." Bob left his sentence hanging there as they stood in front of the closed door, looking at it with a sense of apprehension. 

Buddy only shrugged and opened the door, walking through with a surge of confidence as if this had happened to him before, having a friend go through all of this. He was only just ready to pass out from the dangerous mix of caffeine and no sleep.

Paul was sitting quietly in a chair across from what had to be a psychiatrist who was talking to him quietly with a small smile on his face. The second Buddy made himself known to the two people in the room, the psychiatrist got up and offered his hand in a handshake that Buddy gingerly accepted.

"I'm Dr. Starr, I'm your . . ."

Formalities. What was he to Paul? Roommate? Friend? Lonely American he found on the streets?

"Brother. Paul's like a brother to me. I mean we're friends, but . . ." Buddy looked and felt awkward, taking a step back to put himself all together now. "I'm Buddy Holly."

"Don't worry about it, I have a good friend and we have a similar relationship. Where are his parents or significant other?"

Buddy wanted to crawl into a hole and die at that. Paul was looking up at him with expectant eyes and judging from this episode earlier, he didn't seem to know the answer to either part of that question. Not wanting to traumatize the already traumatized patient, he motioned for Dr. Starr to follow him out.

It was only in the hallway that he noticed the other's very blue eyes. They were looking straight into his soul and . . . hating it, apparently.

"His mom is six feet under and his boyfriend and I wish we could say the same about his dad. I don't have his little brother's number, George—his boyfriend—has it. And George is in the hospital right now. But you can't talk to him, he's in a coma."

Dr. Starr looked like he just got hit by a bus and Buddy felt like he was the one driving it. His tough blue eyes got a bit softer but were still investigating the inner workings of his mind and soul.

"They normally don't let friends in . . . but if they finally take a moment to assess the situation, tell them Dr. Starr said it's imperative you stay here."

Suddenly, the psychiatrist turned to Bob, who looked like he was ready to go. Buddy felt a little bad for him, which was felt like a new emotion entirely after being fairly numb these past few days. He still couldn't believe he could say past few days after being awake for all of them.

"Please watch over Paul, I'm a bit worried about how quiet he's being. After everything, I expected him to come out here with some questions."

Bob nodded slowly, giving Buddy a quick look, almost reminding him about the self-care talk with his eyes alone before going into the room with Paul.

"I'm afraid to say Paul has a strong case for amnesia. Retrograde amnesia, to be more specific. I've notified some neurologists to stop by and see if they can get some brain scans, taking out any possibilities if this is caused by bleeding rather than the psychological trauma of it all."

Buddy had to snap his focus back to Dr. Starr's overly blue eyes at the end of the sentence, a little ready to start making a list for all that was wrong in the past few days. It might honestly be a long list at this point.

"Shall we go back in?" Dr. Starr asked and Buddy couldn't see any reason not to. His friend needed him and frankly, he needed Paul too. 

Paul looked up the second the door opened, watching Buddy particularly closely. Bob stood up from the chair he was sitting in, rubbing his eyes a little while doing so. Either Paul picked up how on his innate ability to tug at the heartstrings even with not all his memories intact, or they were laughing about something. Judging from the quick shared looks and small chuckles, it was the latter.

"You two went out to talk about my parents . . ." Paul looked a little innocent and confused here, so Buddy nodded slowly and motioned for him to continue. The former looked more confident, but not totally at that motion. Buddy allowed for him to smile at that, that he could make his friend feel better in that moment. "Can you please tell me about them?"

Buddy, in that moment, also allowed himself to fall to the ground in a mess of tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: For a while, I'm done with making Paul look like he's progressively getting worse (he's not, I literally forgot to add this to the last chapter but also realised that having the mental state prognosis in a new chapter is pretty great) and getting to George, who I've mentioned but never really talked about. So, George is getting a chapter! Yes he is! And it's going to be happy because range in a story is pretty great! 
> 
> Why am I yelling again?


	6. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I love Roman numerals, they kick butt and make my unsophisticated writing look sophisticated. Anyways, here's George's chapter. It gives you the little background on his and Paul's relationship and how Buddy came into it. But not all at once. You'll figure it out eventually.

George scrambled out of bed the second his open eyes saw sunlight.

And not just any sunlight, but bright heavy, late into the morning sunlight. That meant he was late for Freshman Orientation and that meant he probably wasn't going to make any friends in college and-

He fell to the floor in an awkward fashion after hitting the bathroom door thanks to not paying attention.

Great, now he was going to have an ugly bruise right on the middle of his forehead.

Now that he realised the obstacle in his way, he opened and closed the door behind him. His shower, thankfully, did not include any tumbles or pain.

"George!" his mother shouted, hoping to get to the nervy teen. "What's the problem?"

He certainly did look like there was something wrong with half of his hair dry and the other half wet. His shirt was ironed-thankfully-but was tucked into his pants when they didn't need to be. His shoes seemed to be on the right foot but it seemed like a moment to even be wary of that.

"I'm late for Orientation!" was all he said back and grabbed a bagel as he ran out of the house in a flurry.

She stood there for a second, trying to understand what just happened. A quick check of his room lead her to the problem in all of this and she just couldn't help but laugh at it all.

"His clock's an hour ahead, silly boy."

●

George, still not knowing that he was actually on time, ran to his bus stop in hopes that he'd be there in time to catch the bus. There was one scheduled to be there about an hour after the one he was going to take and there was no way he could miss this one too.

As he turned the corner, facing the stop exactly, he saw the bus slowly coming to the spot. Sighing a great breath of relief, he allowed himself to slow down and walk to the stop, getting there just as the bus did. His still wet hair dripped slowly from his head and fell into his shoulders but mixed in with his sweat didn't stand out as much as it did before.

That didn't stop the confused looks from other people as he boarded the bus, raised eyebrows and shuffling over to not share a spot ensued. It seemed that not everyone wanted to have the chance to get wet. Water-hating heathens, he thought sarcastically.

One person wasn't paying attention to him or anyone else in the world, head buried in his phone, and he took advantage of that quickly. They didn't even look up when he practically collapsed into the chair. This one? Not a heathen.

When he flicked his damp hair from face, the uninterested stranger looked up with an equally uninterested stare.

"Uhm . . . Are you here because of that college thing?"

George nodded slowly and finally took them in. They were wearing the same hoodie he was same school too, obviously. Their hair, unlike his, was well kept and so perfectly in place that he wanted to ask just how he got that to happen. Maybe they didn't run out of the house without drying their hair.

"Then I hope you know it's starting in a little under an hour. You're not late."

George groaned angrily, running his hand through his hair in a miserable attempt to make it look decent. It only got droplets of water onto the person sitting next to him.

"How could you tell I was rushing?"

They laughed, almost out of breath by the time they could respond to his absolute misery. He enjoyed the laugh, it sounded nice and all. He just didn't enjoy the reason for it coming up.

"You're saying this like you're the only person who's had to rush out of the house . . . though most of us don't look like we pulled our heads out of the shower a minute ago."

He shoved the stranger a bit, only to get another round of laughter from them and this time George allowed himself to smile at it. If that was the only sound he would be able to hear ever again, would he be disappointed? Not. At. All.

"I'm Paul. Paul McCartney." 

He was holding out his hand—finally, he said his name. The guy looked absolutely androgynous with his overall appearance, maybe even feminine—for a handshake, George presumed, but George looked at it like he was signing away his life. His anxiety, which decided to make its wonderful comeback then, froze him up like water in an ice box. He simply sat there, eyes wide and his heart drumming away, mile a minute ad his body absolutely rooted to its place. 

Then a long overdue drop of water from the still damp side of his head fell onto his neck, startling the anxious George into giving a half decent hand shake. 

"I-I'm Ge-George Harrison," he managed in a small voice, which only made Paul smile back at him and he suddenly wanted to question this guy's sanity. After his overall unkempt and disoriented behavior, he should have been unappealing. No friendship, no further interaction. Was Paul desperate for a friend or was he genuinely just a good person?

"Well, George," Paul said, smile still very much apparent on his face. "We have Orientation to get to." 

George blinked. It felt like only seconds passed as they were talking, were they truly already there? 

But Paul was right, he confirmed, as he tore his eyes away from the other's gaze and looked out one the windows. Not too far away was the plush lawn of the front of the school and the old giant buildings of the main part of the campus. He got up confused, but still got up nonetheless and followed Paul off of the bus. 

"Maybe we'll find a towel to fix up that one side of your head," Paul murmured, reaching up ever so slightly to run a hand through George's hair. He's just testing to see how wet it is, he's just testing to see how wet I am—Wait, that didn't sound right at all—

"George? Are you okay? We've stepped off the bus ages ago and you're still as still as a rock."

George snapped out of his thoughts, the hand no longer in his hands but his thoughts swirling about at the same rapid pace. If only he could stop being that weird awkward kid for a few seconds, maybe he wouldn't have a lump in his throat every time Paul so much as breathed in his direction. And they just met too, he felt like he was falling a part in this new guy's hands.

"Yeah, yeah," George responded finally in a small voice. "Just peachy. Don't want to be actually late, so let's get on with it, yeah?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is relatively shorter than I wanted it to be because of family health issues that have recently come up. Don't worry, things are getting better with that one family member and hopefully, I'll have a better chapter up in 2018. Next chapter will be a blast in the past chapter just like this one. Happy New Year and all those wonderful things.


End file.
